


Cuts

by DanganMatsus



Series: Traumatized Teens [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), Fucked Up, Gen, Graphic Self Harm, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Seriously this is fucked up, blink and you'll miss it reference to CSA, both very brief but they're still there, vent fic, well two of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanganMatsus/pseuds/DanganMatsus
Summary: Ryoma let's off some stress.





	Cuts

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ: THIS IS A VENT FIC AND THUS CONTAINS GRAPHIC SELF HARM. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED. 
> 
> This was written because I don't know how to cope besides projecting onto fictional characters.

Ryoma sighed, his expression empty as he rustled around in his pockets. His hand moved slowly, delicately, as if a single wrong move would slice it to ribbons.

 

(Well, he wasn't exactly wrong there.)

 

His fingers gently brushed against something hard and plastic, and as he gently gripped it, he felt the unmistakable crust of dried blood. Latching on to the object, he pulled it out of his pockets and gazed at it with a trembling stare.

 

Holding the x-acto blade in a shaking hand, he brought his free arm down to his belt and fiddled with it for a few moments, his vision growing hazy as he heard the familiar click that indicated they had been opened.

 

Letting the belt fall to the ground, he grabbed his pants and pulled them down to his knees, before simply letting them drop. Stepping out of the crumpled item of clothing, he took a moment to stare down at his ruined form.

 

Scars littered his thighs. Some were red and raised, others had turned white over the years and were now flat against his skin. A few particularly deep ones remained raised even as they had turned white, as did the ones he had gone over time and time again. On the fattest parts of his thighs, a few scattered words could be seen, though most had faded to the point that they were no longer legible. One remained however, reading the word “WHORE” in puffy, raised letters, having been cut so deep that Ryoma was convinced it would never truly heal. 

 

It had started off small, Ryoma having been around thirteen when he first began mutilating himself, just a few cuts every now and then, when he felt he could handle the pain. Most of them had been on his arms, to the point where a few patches of them were entirely scar tissue, but eventually he had been caught and forced to hand over the razor blades he had stolen. It was a full year before he tried again, this time on his legs, and even then he had to wait an additional two years before he finally got his hands on an x-acto blade which had been left conveniently unattended, in an old rundown hardware store. It had been six months since then, and Ryoma could almost count the days since then that he hadn't hacked away at his body on one hand.

 

Now, standing in the bathroom, Ryoma stared numbly into the mirror, his second x-acto blade in his hand, the other having dulled to the point that he had to dispose of it. Looking down at his thighs, he grimaced, noting that the scars outnumbered his untouched skin by that point. His legs had begun to tremble, and as he gazed at his previous work, he felt a sick sense of nausea settling into his stomach. 

 

The more he cut, the harder it was to hide, and the harder it was to hide, the more likely it was that his friends would find out. He still remembered the last time, when Shuichi had walked in on him slashing away at himself using a blade he had found at Kokichi’s house. What followed after was a month of panic, fear and confusion as word spread through his friend group like a wildfire. Within days, he found himself sitting in a mental hospital on suicide watch for an entire week. That week had been one of the worst in Ryoma’s life, what with his inability to slice away at his flesh for what seemed like an eternity to him, until he was finally labelled stable enough to leave and sent home. 

 

He just thanked his lucky stars that they hadn't found his x-acto blade. He shuddered to think what would happen if it was confiscated from him.

 

Shaking off the sinking feeling in his gut, Ryoma sat down on the floor of the bathroom, legs spread out in front of him. He ran his hands over the skin, feeling each and every scar within his reach, how some poked out from his skin while others lay flat against it, how some were still red while others had long turned white, and how the freshest ones still had a slight crust of blood on them.

 

Most of all however, Ryoma was thinking about how many more he would make that day.

 

Bringing the blade down to the fattest part of his right thigh, Ryoma pushed down hard. The tip sunk into his flesh, a single bead of blood rising around it, and he let out a moan of both pain and relief. Dragging the blade across his thigh, he winced as it tore through his skin, making a thin horizontal red line, probably around three inches long in total, across his thigh that just barely dipped in between his legs. Lifting the blade back up, he moved it just a centimetre to the left and brought it down once more, this time making sure to move slower, savoring the blood that beaded and dripped around the wound. 

 

Moving it another centimetre down his thigh, Ryoma repeated the process until he was left with seven long slices down his right thigh. By this point, blood had begun to drip down his legs to the floor, a few faint puddles of crimson beginning to form. Moving further down his leg, he made a few shallow cuts, a few trace droplets of blood budding up from them, repeating this process until his entire leg was covered with slices, both shallow and deep.

 

Moving to his left thigh, he sank the blade in once more, biting his lip as he dragged it through his flesh, tears prickling at his eyes as he tore open his body piece by piece. Once again he kept going until his left thigh had seven long slashes, nearly mirroring his right thigh. Blood had begun to pool around him at this point, and Ryoma felt himself beginning to grow woozy. Despite this, he continued onwards, making a couple more shallow cuts in his left leg. 

 

Finally, he stopped, and with trembling fingers, he put the blade down and counted his cuts.

 

43 new gashes littered his legs, and as he finally reached the last one, he grimaced. He liked his cuts to be equal. Grabbing the blade once more, he made a final, shallow cut on his left knee. 

 

Satisfied, he stood up on shaking legs, blood running down to the ground as he stared at his wounds. He stood like that for what felt like an eternity, taking in the sight of the leaking crimson, before taking a handful of paper towels and wiping up the red fluid. Then, holding up the blade, he gave it a quick wipe with the paper before closing it, slipping it back into his pocket. 

 

Grabbing his pants off the floor, he pulled them back up, wincing as the harsh fabric rubbed against his fresh cuts. Grabbing his belt, he wrapped it tightly around himself, clicking it into place. It was midway out the door that he paused.

 

_ Right, the blood on the floor _ .

 

Grabbing another handful of paper towels, he did his best to mop up the crimson mess off of the wooden floorboards. By the time he had finished, there was still a small red stain left, so Ryoma simply prayed that his family and friends would think it was a typical bathroom stain, perhaps from an accident of some kind. Then, taking it and the rest of the towels he had used to clean up the blood, he tossed them into the toilet and flushed, sending all evidence of his little charade down into the sewers where it belonged. 

 

As he exited the room, Ryoma sighed. Not out of relief, but out of frustration. Frustration at the fact that he knew that he would do it all again the next day. At the fact that even 44 wasn't enough for him. At the fact that he'd been like this for nearly four years now, all because some fucking pathetic shitbag decide to make him feel like he was nothing but a worthless whore, all those countless years ago.

 

Readjusting his leather jacket, Ryoma walked into his room and picked up his phone from his bed. He had a text from Gonta.

 

_ Gonta want to know if Ryoma will be coming to party tonight! _

 

Ryoma smirked, typing his reply. 

 

_ sure, I'll be at the house in two hours _

 

Hopefully his wounds would have closed up enough for him to stop wincing with every step by then. Putting his phone down, Ryoma walked numbly back into the bathroom and stared into the mirror.

 

His cheeks were wet with tears he hadn't even noticed he had been crying, and as he wiped them, he made a vow to himself to pay more attention to everything outside of the pain and the blood from that point onwards. 

 

Exiting the bathroom for the second time, he made his way back to his room and collapsed onto his bed. Staring at the ceiling, Ryoma felt numb.

 

As he gazed into the cracks that littered the stark white ceiling, one thought filled Ryoma’s head.

 

_ Next time, I should go for sixty _ .


End file.
